


Lives I've Pursued

by indysaur



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 16:22:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indysaur/pseuds/indysaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur could live like this, or this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lives I've Pursued

The job on which he first met Eames ended poorly. When Arthur finally came bursting through the door and onto the roof, Eames shouted, "Where the fuck have you been? Someone woke up O'Neill--"  
  
"Shut up," Arthur said. "I need to think."  
  
"You don't need to bloody think, we need to jump."  
  
"There's still time," Arthur said. He tore off his jacket, touched distractedly at a spot on his shoulder, assessing the depth of the wound there. "If you can lay down some cover, I can still reach the safe, it's two floors down. There should be rope here; I planned for grappling. Do you see--"  
  
He turned around just in time to see Eames coming at him, found himself wrapped up in Eames' embrace, pulled backwards, falling.  
  
They woke up to company, to O'Neill, getting the tar kicked out of him. Arthur reached for his weapon but discovered he'd been disarmed.  
  
****  
  
An hour and a half later, Arthur was in the backseat of a cab, battered and bruised, with Eames driving.  
  
"You're shit at your job," Eames bit out.  
  
"Fuck you," Arthur said. "If you'd given me two minutes--"  
  
"What the hell is the point in seeing an objective completed if you're not alive to appreciate it?" Eames demanded. He jerked hard at the wheel. "Tell me that."  
  
****  
  
Arthur, he learns to prioritize.  
  
****  
  
After the Fischer job, Arthur finds himself in Los Angeles without a clear idea of where to go. He sits in a Starbuck's, ankle propped up on a knee, with a black coffee at hand and a newspaper spread out in front of him. It feels unfamiliar to flip the wide pages. His fingertips feel dusty, as if they've been smudged with newsprint, but when he checks, they're clean.  
  
He thinks maybe he should keep this one. One day it will be a relic, and Arthur will unfold thin pages with careful hands and tell his children, "This is how we used to know what had happened."  
  
****  
  
When he's finished at the coffee shop, he calls the office that manages his assets, asks for Mackenzie.  
  
"Hello?" she says.  
  
"Mackenzie, it's Arthur."  
  
"Arthur!" He can hear her smile. "It's been a long time."  
  
"It has. How are you?"  
  
"I'm great. I'm really great. How are you? I actually thought about you the other day."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
She laughs. "Not in any kind of bad way. Well, morbidly, maybe. I was going over your portfolio and suddenly I thought that it's completely possible that you'd died and that our fees were just being drawn from your bank account, and would continue to be drawn, ad infinitum. Your investments would just go on accruing the income to pay for our services."  
  
"Lovely," Arthur says.  
  
She laughs again. "I told you it was morbid."  
  
****  
  
He asks for the address of the property he owns in Costa Mesa, and she gives it to him without question, keeps him on the phone for a little while longer. "It's slow here," she says, "and chatting you up on the phone makes me look like I'm extremely dedicated to customer satisfaction."  
  
"Too bad it's a front," Arthur says, smiling.  
  
"Arthur," she says, chiding. "Nine times out of ten, appearing to be something is the same thing as being it."  
  
He laughs. "You remind me of someone," he tells her.  
  
"Really? Who?"  
  
"Someone I work with," he says.  
  
****  
  
He pulls off the 5 and pulls up in front of a condo. He doesn't have a key, but he does have his lock-picking set, and he jimmies the door open, shoves in. There are boxes, half-unpacked, a couch positioned diagonally across the living room to the left, a TV blaring a baseball game, a kid in jeans and a Henley with a beer in hand.  
  
"Uh," the guy says.  
  
"This is my house," Arthur says.  
  
"That's funny, because I'm pretty sure I'm paying 1800 a month to live here."  
  
Arthur sighs. "You weren't supposed to be here until Monday."  
  
The guy stands up. "I'm early. Don't tell." He points at Arthur with his bottle. "You really shouldn't break into people's homes. Are you going to rob me? Will you wait until the game's over to take the TV?"  
  
****  
  
Brady has a job at Cal State Long Beach, working as a career counselor for students.  
  
"You look like you _are_ a student," Arthur tells him.  
  
"Therein lies the magic, bro," Brady says. He swings a jacket off the floor, shoves an arm into a sleeve. "I'm starving. You want to grab some food?"  
  
****  
  
They go to a ramen place nearby. Arthur sits on a stool at the bar, orders a large bowl, adds an egg and tonkatsu to his noodles. The girl next to him bumps his elbow and apologizes, blushing, touches her fingers to his forearm.  
  
"It's fine," Arthur tells her, smiling. He rides out the small rush of adrenaline that had swung through him at the unexpected touch. Reminds himself that this is not a dream, with projections everywhere at hand.  
  
When he turns back, Brady's grinning. "Cute," he says.  
  
Arthur ignores him. "Look, dinner's on me tonight," he says.  
  
Brady's still studying the menu, but he makes an okay sign with his hand. "Excellent."  
  
"Get whatever you want," Arthur says.  
  
Brady laughs. "Look, man, I'm going to let you stay with no complaints, all right? You are the landlord. Just fix my fucking shower head."  
  
****  
  
Brady is easygoing, and Southern California is easygoing--dead of winter and the sun blinkers out for only a few days at a time, sky a cool gray at its worst, sowing a thick and clarifying rain.  
  
Arthur isn't easy-going, not really, but he adapts like he's learned to do in almost any situation. He remembers just how rigid he isn't.  
  
****  
  
When he worked with Cobb, Arthur handled almost everything. What Cobb did do, though, was find the jobs. He had a network that ran deep, and he kept them both busy, leaving a gap of a few days, maybe, between one job and the next. He had been motivated to make money. Arthur hadn't had any time off, really, in a long time.  
  
"Dude, so what do you do?" Brady asks over breakfast one day. "Besides own my house, I mean. What is your profession?"  
  
"I keep busy."  
  
Brady laughs, wipes some milk off his chin. "You're an enigma, friend." He puts his bowl and spoon into the sink with a clatter. "Look, Arthur. I'm going to have a BBQ here next Saturday. You should come, but invite someone, okay? I need, like...reassurances that you're not a sociopath." He claps Arthur on the shoulder.  
  
****  
  
Arthur goes running in the mornings. He pulls on long athletic pants, good shoes, an undershirt. It's misting a little, and goosebumps rise on his skin for the first ten minutes, and then he's sweating. He licks his lips and tastes salt.  
  
It's six, and very quiet. A car rushes past him once in a great while. He makes it to the beach, and he sits on the fence along a stretch of sand. He cools down, and as his heart rate slows, he becomes slowly aware of a pain at his stomach. When he looks down, he sees a bloom of blood. He's not sure when he got cut. He takes off his shirt, uses it to press against the wound.  
  
The sun breaks through the clouds. He can feel the new warmth of it across his bare shoulders.  
  
****  
  
They hadn't worked with Eames often, but when they did it was for jobs that ran for a long stretch of time.  
  
They went out for drinks in Montreal once. This was after Cobb's shock-and-awe campaign designed to convince anyone who was paying attention that he was the best extractor in their business, but not long after.  
  
Eames had been laughing at him. Arthur doesn't remember why, exactly, but he remembers the way Eames looked doing it, eyes amused, his shirt sleeves pushed up around his elbows. Then Eames' phone rang, and he looked down to see who it was, went serious before answering, flicking an apologetic look over at Arthur.  
  
"Hullo," he said. "Oui, in Montreal." He smiled. "That's the extent of my French and you know it." He listened. "Yes, things are fine. It's work." The smile growing. "Okay," he said, quietly. "Alright. Sweetheart, I have to go. I'm with somebody." He laughed. "I need the warmth of a body next to me, of course. Can you fault me? Okay, I do have to go. Okay. Bye then." Eames pocketed his phone, sighed, took a sip of his drink. "Sorry about that."  
  
"It's fine," Arthur said. "I didn't know you were seeing someone."  
  
"Gina," Eames said. "What about you, Arthur? I believe we've come to the locker room portion of our evening."  
  
Arthur shook his head. "No, I'm not--things have been busy."  
  
Eames looked at him. "You aren't actually an extension of Cobb," Eames told him. "No need to adopt his celibacy."  
  
Arthur laughed. "Who said anything about celibacy?"  
  
Eames grinned. "That's a lad."  
  
****  
  
They walked back to their hotel, mostly in silence, three blocks down. The warm glow of lights spilling from doorways everywhere. People moving in groups, laughing.  
  
"Why do you work with Cobb?" Eames asked. "You're young. What keeps you with him?"  
  
"Why not work with him?" Arthur asked. "My reputation grows with his."  
  
Eames's brow furrowed. "People will begin to think your defining trait is loyalty."  
  
"So?"  
  
"I don't think it's loyalty keeping you with Cobb." Eames lit a cigarette. "It's a misconception, is all."  
  
Arthur smiled. "Don't worry, Mr. Eames, I'm well aware that you're the smartest boy in the room."  
  
****  
  
Cobb calls on Monday. "Hey," he says. "I need you to do something for me." No preamble.  
  
"What is it?" Arthur asks, snapping to.  
  
Cobb sighs. "Eames called in a favor, but I can't come through. Will you go to his P.O. Box in Los Angeles and pick up a package he's expecting? I'd do it quick; he sounded like he was up shit creek."  
  
"Yeah, fine." Arthur grabs a jacket, opens the safe he'd installed under the floorboards in his closet. "Can you text me the details?"  
  
"Done. Arthur, thank you."  
  
"It's nothing, Dom."  
  
"And take a gun."  
  
"What an excellent reminder."  
  
Dom huffs out a laugh. "Hey, wait. Arthur. How are you? What've you been up to?"  
  
Arthur frowns, searching the room for the holster he could have sworn he'd hung in the closet. "Look, do you want me to tell you about my daily routine or get off my ass and get your errand done?"  
  
"I want you to tell me about your daily routine," Cobb says.  
  
Arthur straightens. "Oh."  
  
"Do you start your day with a healthy breakfast?"  
  
Arthur laughs. "Dom, I have to go," he says. It's nicer than he'd expected, hearing from him.  
  
****  
  
It takes him two hours to get through traffic, and when he arrives at the post office, he realizes he won't have the time or shelter to pick the lock of the P.O. Box without drawing suspicion. "Shit," he says. He gets in line to speak with the employee behind the counter, puts on a harried expression, tries to decide the best way to cajole the man into helping him.  
  
Wheedling is not his strong suit. Eames owes him.  
  
****  
  
Arthur picks up a tail on his way home, and only realizes halfway to Costa Mesa. He pulls off the freeway. They're in an industrial section of some town: warehouses, big rigs galore. Arthur pulls into a mostly-empty parking lot, leaves the car idling and ducks around the corner of a flat of offices.  
  
Headlights cut across the lot a few minutes later and Arthur listens to car doors slamming, to the step of shoes moving away.  
  
Three, two, then Arthur walks back to the lot. They'd left the driver behind, and Arthur waves with both hands at him, jogs toward his car. "Hey," he says, sounding friendly. "Excuse me, can you help me out?" He makes sure to stay out of the light.  
  
The man rolls down the window, and Arthur reaches in, slams his head into the steering wheel--twice to be sure--and then shoots out all four tires.  
  
He's back on the road before the rest of his pursuing detail returns. He drops the car off at John Wayne airport, picks up another at Avis. It's a Prius. Quiet. Nice.  
  
****  
  
When he gets home, Brady says, "Dude, where have you been?" He's playing some video game in bare feet. The noise of simulated warfare. "Did you eat?" He looks up at the lack of response. "Arthur?" He shrugs, turns back to the TV. "I made jambalaya. Grab some, there's plenty."  
  
Arthur goes to the kitchen, fills a bowl, then goes back to the living room. He sits on the arm of the couch; watches Brady navigate a soldier through swampy terrain. He takes a bite. "This is really good."  
  
"Yeah?" Brady grimaces. "It's salty, right? I was gonna get some tomatoes at the farmer's market, but I got lazy. Not my best."  
  
"No, it's incredible. Thanks." Arthur sighs, leans back against the wall. He lets his eyes close for a second.  
  
"You seem beat, man."  
  
Arthur opens his eyes again. Brady's distracted, concentrating mostly on the game, but has his head tilted back toward Arthur, ready to half-listen. Arthur takes another bite of the jambalaya, then says, "My job it's--you have to stay on your toes. I forgot how quickly I can get off my game if I'm not focusing."  
  
"Sounds rough. I'd go out of my mind."  
  
Arthur laughs. "Yeah."  
  
Brady sets off an explosive, then grins, satisfied, at the MISSION ACCOMPLISHED that stamps itself across the screen. He holds onto the controller with one hand, slaps Arthur's knee with the other. "Stay sane, friend," he says.  
  
"That's the goal," Arthur says.  
  
"And look, if you ever want to switch careers--" Brady spreads his arms. "You know where to come for guidance."  
  
Arthur's phone rings, then. It's Eames. "I have to take this."  
  
Brady waves him off.  
  
Arthur raises the bowl again in thanks, then goes upstairs, answers the phone. "Hey, Eames."  
  
"Arthur, how did things go?" Eames asks. Cobb was right; he sounds frayed.  
  
"How did you find trouble so quickly? It's been less than a month since the Fischer job."  
  
"Who says I found trouble?" Eames asks.  
  
"I have your package. I had to lose a team."  
  
Eames groans. "Alright. Can you hold onto it? I'll be there tomorrow, if everything goes well."  
  
"How alert should I be, Eames? Are these guys going to look for me?"  
  
"Did you piss them off?" Eames asks.  
  
"I knocked out their driver and disabled their rental."  
  
"How upset would you be if you lost the deposit on your rental car?"  
  
Arthur shrugs. "Not very."  
  
"There you are. I'll be there soon."  
  
"Don't bring menace into my life," Arthur says.  
  
Eames laughs. "Who was it that called you into my little job in the first place, Arthur? Shall I spell his name for you? It ends in a double 'b'."  
  
"I'm just saying be careful."  
  
Eames sighs. "Yes, but if you'd say it more sweetly."  
  
****  
  
There's always a point on their longer jobs where Eames begins to ignore Arthur's weekly updates, the files that he hands Eames every Monday.  
  
In Sana'a, Arthur said, "There's information in there you need to know. Your files are a third as thick as those going to the rest of the team because I filter yours down to only what I think is most crucial. Fucking read it."  
  
"I've reached my saturation point, Arthur. Truly."  
  
"You need these details."  
  
"I don't." Eames stood firm. "At the risk of sounding incredibly pretentious, forgery is an art, not a science. I have what I need."  
  
Arthur loomed over Eames. He flipped open the folder. "This is a fire escape Pankti added to the bank. It's only accessible from the sixth floor. The fifth floor is blank space. If you take the elevator there, it will open onto nothing. These are details you need to know that have nothing to do with your role and everything to do with your job. Read it."  
  
Eames leaned back in his chair, slouching, staring up at Arthur. He'd been chewing on a toothpick. Finally, he said, "I have a massive headache. Can I read this later or are you going to stand there and insist on watching me read it now?"  
  
Arthur studied him. The tightness around his eyes. The unsteady rolling of the toothpick between his lips. Arthur clicked his jaw, then dragged a chair over and sat. "Close your eyes. Listen. The kick will be scheduled for twenty minutes, signaled by a recording of Piaf--"  
  
Eames had closed his eyes. He'd listened. Arthur saw the tightness ease, and when Eames lifted his hand and let his fingers rest on Arthur's wrist, Arthur continued to read, no change in his voice.  
  
****  
  
Saturday morning, Brady knocks quietly at Arthur's door.  
  
"Come in," Arthur says.  
  
Brady opens the door, peeks his head in. "Hey, I'm sorry. Can I put my wetsuit on your balcony?"  
  
Arthur nods, sits up in bed, watches Brady cross the distance. He rubs at his eyes. "Did you go surfing?"  
  
"Yup." Brady comes back inside. "Thanks, man." He slides the glass door closed, then turns back to Arthur. "Barbecue’s tonight. You gonna be around? I mean, I want you to be around. You should be."  
  
Arthur nods. "I'll be here. I cleaned your grill yesterday and bought some quick-lighting coal. Bacon, too."  
  
"Dude, I am glad to know you," Brady says, grinning. "Who're you bringing?"  
  
Arthur sighs. "I don't know."  
  
"It's a rule, buddy. Invite someone."  
  
Arthur wonders, quick, how he'd found himself living this kind of life.  
  
****  
  
It pains Arthur to imagine Cobb at a barbeque thrown by Brady. It pains Arthur to imagine Cobb's thoughts on his current living situation. On his current life situation.  
  
He calls Mackenzie. "You live around here, right?"  
  
"Arthur," she says. "If this is Phase A in your elaborate plan to sweep me off my feet, let me warn you that I'm not in a hurry to find a man, I'm extremely confident and happy with my life, and I am not a cheap date."  
  
"Thank you; I'll adjust my plan of attack accordingly."  
  
"It's just that you should know," she says. "I'm a pretty big deal."  
  
"Understood."  
  
"I dated a prince once."  
  
"This is getting over-the-top."  
  
"He was the prince of the moon. The entire moon," she says.  
  
****  
  
He picks Mackenzie up at her apartment. When she comes to the door, she takes him in, then pulls him into a hug. "You know this is only the third time we've seen each other in person?" she asks, holding onto him.  
  
She says, "Look at that, you really are more than just a voice."  
  
****  
  
There are more people at the barbeque than he'd expected. It's a party, and the sun, as if summoned by collective good will, shimmers against blue sky--offering light, if not warmth. There's still a bite in the air.  
  
Arthur introduces Mackenzie around--Brady says, "Hey now, lady friend,"--but thirty minutes in, and he's feeling...out of his depth. This hasn't been his world for a long time. It's strange to know that this is what other lives could be like.  
  
He goes out onto his balcony; looks down at the front door, watching people come in and out. He lights a cigarette, leans his elbows against the railing.  
  
"Bad habit," comes a voice from below, and to his left.  
  
Arthur finds him. Hands in his pockets, in corduroys and a sweater. Still heavily stubbled. Still Eames, squinting into the sun. "You made it," he says.  
  
Eames presses a hand to his heart. "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair."  
  
Arthur flicks his cigarette butt at him.  
  
****  
  
He gives Eames the package. "What's in it?" he asks.  
  
"Hell if I know," Eames says. "I don't open anything on retrieval jobs anymore."  
  
Arthur smiles, remembering Palermo. "How long are you in California?"  
  
"Another week."  
  
"I would offer a place here, but--"  
  
Eames grin comes slow, spreads wide. "Believe me, Arthur." His gaze travels over the balcony, taking in the noise of the people below, the wetsuit drying on the railing, the jeans Arthur's wearing, his bare feet. "I wouldn't stay anywhere else."  
  
****  
  
He introduces Eames to Brady and then Mackenzie, and then nobody else. It's better to limit the points of exposure. Brady's had a bit to drink. "You're fucking CIA," Brady says to Arthur, immediately after shaking Eames' hand. He grips Arthur's shoulder. "This guy's James fucking Bond. Just tell me the truth, man."  
  
Eames smirks. "Arthur, you're keeping this poor boy in the dark? Aren't the two of you shacking up?"  
  
"Yes," Brady says. "We're fucking shacking up. Tell me. This was supposed to be a goddamn _single_."  
  
****  
  
Mackenzie is vegetarian, but she'd made a huge pot of her mother's laucki chana dal for the barbeque, and the thing got licked clean.  
  
By nine, most everyone has left. Eames is playing poker with Brady and a couple of his friends, and Arthur sits in the grass in the backyard with a bottle of beer, Mackenzie next to him.  
  
"I think I'm going to leave my job," she tells him.  
  
Arthur's surprised. "Really? Why?"  
  
She shrugs. "It's not what I want to do anymore. I took it on because I needed the money, and then stayed because I was good at it, but--I think my time there is just up, you know?"  
  
Arthur nods. He finishes his beer.  
  
"I'm glad you invited me today. That we're friends."  
  
Arthur smiles. "Me, too."  
  
"My mom says that people come into our lives for seasons. Like. Some are lifelong, and others are for a little while. Like, college, or high school. And then others are in your life for moments."  
  
Arthur tilts his head up, watches the moon fade into place. The smoke from the dying grill clouding the sky.  
  
"We probably won't be friends forever, will we?" she asks.  
  
Arthur shakes his head. "No," he says. "But I'm glad I know you now."  
  
****  
  
Brady has a sleeping bag he lets Eames borrow. "Look, man. The pillow's built in," he says to Eames, proudly.  
  
Arthur grins. "Beat that for service."  
  
****  
  
After they've both washed up, after they get into bed and the lights come off, Eames says. "Incredible, Arthur. It's as if you live to defy expectation."  
  
Arthur smiles up at the ceiling. "How do you know this isn't a job?"  
  
"Is it?" Eames demands. "Brady lived in Beirut for three years; did you know that?"  
  
****  
  
Arthur had taken a job in Mombasa. "It'll take you a few days, at most," Cobb told him. "If you nail this, Cobol will drop consideration of the Nabokov team for this next job. Can you go alone?"  
  
So he went alone.  
  
Eames was on the team. "What the fuck are you doing here?" Arthur asked.  
  
"I live here," Eames replied, smiling. "Lovely to see you, too."  
  
****  
  
Anyway. Eames ended up running this guy down, vaulting across rooftops in a simulacrum of a half-dozen Arabian cities. Arthur noted the direction the target was heading, then went through the map laid out in his head, pinpointed the one alleyway that he would most likely be funneled toward.  
  
Arthur strode through markets, picked up a custard apple and sliced it in hand with his pocketknife. He took his place in the alleyway, eating through slices. He heard pounding footsteps, bit the apple's flesh, holding it in his mouth, then conjured up a bat, swung hard into the stomach of the man who came sprinting around the corner.  
  
He had the bat on his shoulder when Eames came into view.  
  
"Holy hell," Eames said.  
  
"Apple?" Arthur offered.  
  
****  
  
When they woke up, Eames came over with purpose. He put both hands on either side of Arthur's head, leaned in and kissed him.  
  
His lips against Arthur's. Arthur sucked, a little, at the bottom one. He couldn't help it.  
  
When Eames pulled away, Arthur gripped his chair's armrests, said, "What the fuck was that?"  
  
"Isn't it funny?" Eames asked. "I could swear I taste apples." He turned away. "Up, now. We should move."  
  
****  
  
The thing that Arthur keeps trying to remember is that people are never only one thing. They change. What doesn't, what is more constant, is who you think someone to be.  
  
"If you want to get abstract about it," Eames said once, "I could never truly be another person. Luckily, I only ever have to be who someone else thinks you to be. Simpler to be someone's wife, or brother, or friend. Different from being Arthur, or Thomas, or Jana."  
  
"So if you went into my mind and forged Cobb, it would be a representation of who I think Cobb to be? Cobb-as-friend rather than a catch-all imitation?"  
  
"Accurate enough. Though to the outside observer, Cobb may more truly be a man made selfish by grief, to you--Yes, I would go with Cobb as friend, as mentor, as many good and whitewashed things."  
  
"Christ," Arthur said. He stood up. "We don't have time for this."  
  
Eames drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "If only someone would pay you to indulge in some introspection," he called after him, anger afloat upon the surface.  
  
****  
  
In the morning, Arthur goes downstairs and finds Brady half in his wetsuit, his surfboard propped up next to the front door.  
  
"Your buddy's cool," Brady says.  
  
Arthur stands on the second-to-bottom step. "I'll let him know you think so. It's okay that he's here, right?"  
  
Brady shrugs. "Fine with me."  
  
"You're going to go surfing?"  
  
"Yup. You wanna come?"  
  
"I might meet you there," Arthur says.  
  
"Cool."  
  
Brady turns to go, but Arthur says, "Brady. I wanted to say thank you."  
  
Brady grins. "Hey, no worries. One of the better roommate situations I've ever had." He scratches at his nose, winks. "I'll see you in a few, maybe."  
  
****  
  
He wakes Eames up, packs the contents of his safe, the few changes of clothes he has.  
  
"Where are we going?" Eames asked.  
  
"I have a safe house in Billings. We should leave before whoever's after you catches up."  
  
"I didn't leave anyone behind me to catch up with me."  
  
Arthur nods. "Good. Still."  
  
****  
  
They decide to go their separate ways at the airport. Eames has commitments to keep in California. "Why Montana?" he asks. They're sitting at an airport bar; Eames's fingers running around the rim of his cup.  
  
"No reason. It's a house. Montana is big."  
  
Eames shakes his head. "You know, people have been asking after you. Do you want a job?"  
  
"Should I take a job?" Arthur asks. He props his feet on the bottom rung of his stool. Lets the raised heels of his dress shoes catch.  
  
"You should do whatever you want to do." The sentiment sincere.  
  
****  
  
In Montana, he calls his asset management offices, and when the voice on the other end is unfamiliar, Arthur hangs up and books a flight out to Japan.  
  
****  
  
Arthur books a room at a hotel Saito owns. On the third day, he walks into his suite and Saito is there, sitting at Arthur's desk, drinking tea. He looks up when he hears Arthur come in. "Good, Arthur." He picks up the pot of tea, pours another cup. "Sit down."  
  
Arthur sits.  
  
"I have a proposition for you."  
  
Arthur takes a sip of his tea. "I thought you were paying for the extraction I'm working on now."  
  
Saito nods. "I am, but it's not important. I am only curious about Hong Kong's financial practices." He leans back in his chair. "Come work for me, Arthur."  
  
****  
  
Arthur gets a letter from Eames.  
  
 _Dear Arthur,  
  
It's summer in Australia.  
  
I've joined a rugby team here. I'm aching in places I never used to before. Thirty isn't old, but it isn't young either, is it?  
  
I suspect you know how to surf.  
  
Eames_  
  
****  
  
Saito expects every skill Arthur has in the dreamscape to transfer over to the waking world, so Arthur makes sure that they do.  
  
It's different from working with Cobb. He outlines all the ways that it is. In this case, Arthur is the linchpin of his every team. In this case, Arthur feels like he can say no to certain jobs. In this case, the stakes are not heightened with the sense of loss, of fatherly guilt.  
  
Saito has a son. Arthur meets him at the family estate, a plot of land at the base of a mountain that has been handed down for generations. Kento is six, and serious. When he breaks into a smile, his face is transformed. Saito spends hours with him.  
  
Kanae is lovely, which Arthur expected, and warm, which Arthur did not. She's tall, but she worries about her weight, always spooning out half of the rice she's served at dinner. Once, Arthur comes round a corner and finds her and Saito talking quietly, Saito's arms around her waist, her hands on his chest as she stares him in the eye. Her fingers catch where his shirt is open, around the lapel. He's nodding. He curses, looking away. He pretends not to see Arthur.  
  
Later, Arthur goes over the plans for a scheduled extraction while Saito sits with Kento on his lap. Totoro on the TV screen.  
  
When they've finished, Saito says, abruptly, "I'm a good father, but not a good husband."  
  
Arthur says, "We do our best."  
  
"There are things I was raised to believe were my right."  
  
Arthur laughs. "I pray to God you've never used that line on your wife."  
  
Saito smiles, rueful. He dips a finger into his son's sock, tugs at the cotton.  
  
****  
  
He gets an e-mail from Brady.  
  
 _Dude, you can't just give me a condo. What the fuck is property tax? Tell me, man. You're a spook._  
  
Arthur replies: _boo_.  
  
****  
  
He sends a letter to Eames. He feels like he's obligated to, so he puts a pen to paper.  
  
 _Eames,  
  
I've surfed once in the last ten years, but before that. Yes, I know how to surf.  
  
Saito has a family, which I knew, but I don't think I could have imagined what it would be to see him with them. It brings him down to earth in a way that defies the distance Cobb falls when he's with Philippa and James.  
  
I ate whale the other day without knowing.  
  
I think it can be hard to be good. Harder to be good to someone else, always.  
  
Eames, be safe.  
  
Arthur_  
  
****  
  
Saito had security, but Arthur winnows the team down, has two men living in Saito's home. Better to keep bodyguards close, to draw them into the intimacy of family. They'll sacrifice more for you, and more instinctively this way.  
  
Kanae comes home one day; Arthur is in the front room, ready to step out, and he watches her press the door closed with both hands, turn the locks one by one.  
  
"What's wrong?" he asks.  
  
She starts. "It's nothing." Her English is gently accented. "Really, it was nothing. I felt frightened. There was a car that was behind me, I thought all day, but." She laughs, embarrassed.  
  
"It's good you told me," he says. He reaches out but doesn't touch her, letting his hand hover over her elbow.  
  
"I worry too much, I think." She's still smiling, but she looks down at the floor. She takes Arthur's hand, squeezes it. "My husband is a dangerous man. It's hard to forget, even when he is not here." She doesn't sound scared. Weary, maybe.  
  
****  
  
 _Dear Arthur,  
  
When I was sixteen, I had a dog that I was bloody awful to. I wasn't violent towards it, but I didn't walk him. Mum insisted I keep him outside, so I did, and there were days I only went out there to feed him. I gave him away, finally. Relieved myself of a burden. He used to whimper, right outside my bedroom window.  
  
I told that to a girl once--Gina, do you remember her? She told me later that that was the beginning of the end. I had to laugh.  
  
It's much easier to talk to you when I can't see your lifted eyebrow. Your thinning mouth.  
  
I almost took a bullet in the shoulder yesterday, but then I didn't, because I remembered you told me to be safe. Handy, that.  
  
I would tell you to be safe, but I think you might take it as a disparagement of your capability. I remain confident in your ability.  
  
Eames_  
  
****  
  
An alarm wakes Arthur up at four a.m. He jackknifes up, pulls on pants and shoes, grabs his automatic.  
  
He's padding down a hallway when he hears a scream. It sends him racing to Saito's bedroom, safety undone, and when he bursts in, one of the bodyguards is already there, restraining Saito who is shouting furiously in Japanese.  
  
At the sight of Arthur, he switches seamlessly to English. "The bulk of your pay does not go towards securing your protection for me, but for my family. Do your job." His eyes wild.  
  
Arthur runs out. On his way to Kento's bedroom, he slows down, then kicks the door open, shoots the man-on-watch directly across.  
  
Arthur takes a shot in the shoulder from a man to his right, and the shock of it makes him drop his gun. Arthur swears, picks up a chair and rams it toward the man. It takes three shots splintering through heavy wood before Arthur pins him with the legs. Arthur drops the chair, grabs the man's shoulders and brings his knee to crotch, cracks the man's nose with his elbow. The man drops to the floor and Arthur retrieves his gun, shoots him in the knee.  
  
Arthur knocks on the door of the locked closet. The splintering wood. "Kanae. Are you okay? Is Kento okay?"  
  
There is the quietness of held breath--a weight in the air--and then Kanae keens and Kento cries, and Arthur, he feels the pain in his shoulder: a burst of pent-up sensation, overwhelming and red.  
  
****  
  
Arthur, he dreams for the first time in a very long time.  
  
****  
  
When he wakes up, Saito is at his bedside. He's wearing glasses, looking down at a computer screen.  
  
Arthur clears his throat, and Saito closes the laptop, straightens in his seat. "You're awake."  
  
"How long?"  
  
"Half a day. It's good that you were unconscious for that time. It allowed me the opportunity to think through my actions. My first instinct was to fire you."  
  
"My first instinct is to quit."  
  
Saito smiles.  
  
"Well. Something worth considering, then." He stands. He puts his hand on Arthur's chest. "You are an asset, Arthur. I hope we work together again." He pats Arthur twice. "Thank you."  
  
****  
  
Which is how he finds himself in Chicago, in a small, furnished apartment. He'd kept company since the Fischer job, not by design, but it had happened. Before then, he'd been used to Cobb, in the room across the hall, or next to his. In the same building, at least.  
  
He writes a quick e-mail to Eames.  
  
 _I had a dream of you_ in the subject line. Blank inside.  
  
****  
  
One thing Arthur has learned is that people are not predictable, that they are constantly mutable; shifting, in the course of a day, between several faces. Ariadne, who could spend hours worrying about her thesis--"Arthur, you're assuming that the current level of consumption is widely-sustainable. Incorporating small-scale organic farming into green urban spaces is well and good, but in a city like Los Angeles, where those green spaces aren't prevalent, you need to rezone the entire space."--is also the Ariadne who can shape a bishop with a lathe.  
  
Eames had her hold it up for him. "You left a bump, there."  
  
"So I know it's mine," she said.  
  
He nodded. "It's well-crafted. Teach me how to do that."  
  
"Sure," she said, laughing. "But first, what’s your totem?"  
  
Eames tutted. "There, now, sweetheart. Where's the fun if not in discovery?"  
  
She rolled her eyes. "Seriously off-putting. I'm not sure if it was the 'sweetheart', or the forced mystery."  
  
He laughed. "It's my lack of reciprocity. A character flaw." He put out a hand for her to shake. "Apologies."  
  
Ariadne, who looked at the dreamscape with the joy of discovery, still. Who was still developing the composure that would come with experience. The fear that had bristled through her before Arthur distracted her with a kiss.  
  
In the plane, before they landed, Arthur leaned over, whispered, "It was a nice kiss, though."  
  
"What?" She looked over, confused, then blushed as the memory returned. "Oh. Right."  
  
He grinned. "You forgot. I take offense."  
  
Her blush grew deeper, but she shrugged, nonchalant. "You kissed me like I'm chaste, Arthur." She met his eyes. "I'm not chaste."  
  
He tries not to forget after that. How revealing a kiss can be. How deceptive the receipt of one.  
  
  
****  
  
He's healing, but in fits and starts. He goes to a doctor, a real one, with an office and a receptionist.  
  
When the nurse unwraps the wound, her eyebrows lift, but she doesn't say anything. The doctor goes, "Whoa. How did you come by a bullet wound?"  
  
Arthur stares him down. He could answer, but this is more fun.  
  
****  
  
 _Arthur,  
  
I've left Australia.  
  
London, which used to be free of any inkling of you, has taken a turn with the winter; snow on every surface. Inescapable, really.  
  
I've been informed that you took a bullet wound. Well done. I suppose this should shake my faith in your intrinsic ability to take care of yourself, but you're alive, and I'm glad for that. God knows why.  
  
I  can't quite hear your voice when you write. I don't know the why of that either.  
  
  
Eames_  
  
****  
  
Saito calls. "How is your recovery going?"  
  
"Fine. I'm almost there. You know you don't have to foot my bills, right? I can't buy airlines, but I'm what most people would consider wealthy."  
  
Saito laughs. "It's upon the insistence of my wife."  
  
"How is Kanae?"  
  
"She's fine." Saito pauses. "I am attempting to woo her again, I suppose."  
  
"Hey, pull your usual line." Arthur asks. "Tell her men have needs. Bam, marriage repaired."  
  
"The triviality with which you see me now is disquieting," Saito says.  
  
****  
  
There's a swimming pool at his gym, heated. Arthur likes to go--he hasn't used the PASIV in a long time, and the splash of one medium to another, from air to the cool hiss of water, offers a kind of comfort.  
  
He has a leanness suited for swimming, and he pulls through the water with long, steady strokes, and after two laps he feels streamlined. Knifing through the water, coming up for air in steady beats.  
  
Long expanses of the world muffled, the rhythmic splash of air. Little breaks of clarity.  
  
There's a time for everything.  
  
****  
  
He calls Eames. "Can you come to Chicago?"  
  
"Is that where you are?" Eames asks.  
  
Arthur rolls his eyes. "Yes, that's where I am. Or." He fiddles with his duffel bag, makes sure he has his boxing gloves, his hand wraps. "I could come to you, if you want. I mean, if that's easier." Arthur takes a deep breath, straightens. "I can come to you, if you can't get away there."  
  
"Why am I coming, Arthur?"  
  
Arthur waits. "I'd just. I want to see you." He feels unarmored, and his legs tense, ready to flee.  
  
"Can I ask you something?" Eames says.  
  
"You can ask," Arthur says.  
  
"Why were you living with that Brady character? Why Saito after him?"  
  
Arthur scratches at his brow. He wipes sweat off his nose. "I showed up and they let me stay," he says.  
  
"Is that all it takes?" Eames asks.  
  
****  
  
He has a lot of nervous energy, lately. There's a job that he's been contracted for, but it doesn't kick in, really, for another week or two yet, and Arthur remains in preliminary preparations, gathering the information that is most available to him.  
  
He's been doing a lot of boxing. It's not his favorite style of fighting, but there are times when the brutal efficacy of it can't be denied. He should get better at it.  
  
He's sparring with a partner, landing blows to his torso, thud, thud, thud. He takes a hit to his headgear, shakes off the ringing and steps in close, jabs at his opponent's chin. He's dripping sweat, and taps at his cheeks, forcing himself to keep his hands up.  
  
"Hey," he says, tugging his mouth guard out. "Can you just throw a flurry at me? My slipping's weak."  
  
His opponent nods. "Yeah, can we take a break, though? I need some water, and you've got company."  
  
When Arthur turns, he sees Eames, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He grins. "Hey."  
  
Eames lifts a hand. "Look at you," he says.  
  
Arthur pulls his headgear off, ruffles at his hair. "You got here quick."  
  
Eames shrugs. "There was reason to." He comes closer to the ring, and Arthur sees that he's already wrapped his hands, that he's found gear somewhere. "You're a partner down," he says.  
  
****  
  
Eames is a couple of weight classes above him, but Arthur makes up the difference by not adhering as strictly to traditional boxing rules as he could.  
  
He takes a hard hook and returns with a cross-counter. Eames comes in tight, a slow stalk, and Arthur stays high, pushes off the balls of his feet, ducks under a jab and catches Eames' arm, propels him back against the ropes.  
  
They're both breathing heavy, and Eames chuckles. "You're cheating," he says.  
  
Arthur shrugs, and Eames laughs, taps Arthur's back with his glove. "Let's take a break, shall we?" He keeps Arthur close.  
  
****  
  
Eames kisses Arthur, but this time he sees it coming. He wraps his arms around Eames' waist and takes the kiss, and when Eames goes to pull away, Arthur doesn't let him.  
  
****  
  
In bed, Eames has his arm curled around Arthur's neck. He has his fingers in Arthur's hair.  
  
"What was your dream of?" he asks.  
  
Arthur turns into him. The lights are off, and the room is dark. Shadows across Eames' face, cast by his nose, his lashes. "What dream?" he asks.  
  
Eames waits, his chest rising and falling.  
  
Arthur sighs. He rolls onto his back, staring up. He puts his hand behind his head. "It was after the whole Saito uprising. By the way, you don't want to kidnap Saito's kid; the man will flay you alive."  
  
"Circling," Eames says.  
  
Arthur blows a breath out. "It was a dream," he says. "You were there. Chased by someone, for the usual myriad of reasons. You were talking, going on about some book you'd read, and you didn't see the man taking aim, but I did."  
  
"You took a bullet for me. In your dream." Eames rests his hand on Arthur's hip.  
  
"I think so," Arthur says. He shakes his head. "I can't remember. All I remember is being on top of you. The way you were looking at me. There might have been blood, maybe."  
  
"Quite a gesture," Eames says.  
  
"Easy to make when you're sleeping," Arthur laughs.  
  
****  
  
He left out that the dream made him think of this. Made him remember:  
  
In Montreal, the extraction they'd been working had gone smoothly, for the most part. The team gets caught in an explosion but they'd extracted the information they'd needed already, and most of the team is killed and woken up instantly.  
  
Arthur wasn't so lucky. His face drained white at the gaping hole in his thigh, and he scrabbled for his gun, fighting off shock.  
  
Eames was laughing, shrapnel studding his chest. "Jesus Christ," he said. "Jesus Christ."  
  
Arthur grabbed his gun, and shot him, then pressed the barrel to his temple, thought, _I could want to be good to him. Someday._  
  
****  
  
Arthur plans out a letter while Eames is sleeping. It's easier to tell him some things on paper. It puts Arthur's thoughts in an order that they typically lose, when faced with Eames himself.  
  
He would start with _Dear Eames_.  
  
He would say--  
  
He would say--  
  
  
He would say that it's easy to feel unmoored. He would say that life never really seems to present him with crossroads, only people to catch a hold of, for a short time or another. He would say he could make peace with nuclear winter, even, with Eames at his side. That life could be easy and full of surf and sun, and only when Eames showed up, would it feel complete.  
  
He would say it makes him feel like a different person, wanting something so much. Wanting so badly, to be good.  
  
He would say love.

 

**The end.**


End file.
